


Never did run smooth

by galateaGalvanized



Series: Paradise Found [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Starscream is not a tame Decepticon, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galateaGalvanized/pseuds/galateaGalvanized
Summary: He sinks into Starscream’s hold with a gasp, neck bared as he leans his forehead against the cool metal of the wall. “I don’t want a saint, Starscream,” Bumblebee manages to say at last, panting against the wall with an uncomfortable warmth spreading through his chest, “And I don’t want you trying to be something you’re not.”Or:Kink negotiation is a lot like diplomatic negotiation, in the end.(Although this is technically a sequel, it isn’t necessary to read the first one!)
Relationships: Bumblebee/Starscream (Transformers)
Series: Paradise Found [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814740
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	Never did run smooth

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven’t read the first one, this takes place in a universe in which Starscream’s subconscious created a “perfect dream” as a safe harbor while Starscream was in jail and 'Bee was in infraspace. Although they were married and co-ruling a peaceful Cybertron in the dream, they were dying in real life. Windblade found out, convinced them to wake up, and now they’re both alive, well, and banished to Earth.
> 
> If you've read the first one, here’s the PWP sequel I promised! It might be a bit more porn with plot than porn without plot, but it is at the very least 50/50 porn to plot. Please enjoy!

The prisoner transport vehicle is a uniform gray block of a spaceship, devoid of any windows except those in the cockpit. It lands on the long yellow grass with a lurch, engines drawing heat shimmers against the sheer blue sky. Another fifteen minutes pass before the smooth line of the ship body breaks as a door slides out and to the side, and a metal staircase extends from the ship interior down to the earth below.

Bumblebee can see the edges of white and red wings through the open doors, and his air intakes stutter and restart as he watches two guards escort Starscream down the stairs. The staircase creaks and groans beneath their combined weight, and the grass makes a snapping sound as it is whipped by the still-running engines. Starscream’s eyes never leave Bumblebee’s as he descends, looking more akin to a visiting dignitary than a prisoner banished forever from his home. 

The guards flanking him push him forward, their Autobot badges displayed prominently on their chests. Bumblebee steps forward, opens his arms in welcome, and smiles his widest and most ambassadorial smile. Starscream is smirking, eyes bright even in the unrelenting sunshine, and Bumblebee has not seen him in eight months. He owes a lot of people a lot of favors for this day: for pulling Starscream out from behind bars and into his care.

“Welcome to Earth, Starscream,” he says, and if his voice wavers, no one calls him on it. He turns to the guards and keeps his smile firmly in place. “Fervor, Kindle, thanks for coming all this way. I’m assuming there’s paperwork?”

There is always paperwork. Bumblebee can feel the weight of Starscream’s eyes on him with every press of his thumb on the signature pad, every transmission of his personal security code and sparkprint. It is only when he is handing the pads back, reassuring the guards that his staff have everything under control, that he feels Starscream’s gaze shift. Looking over his shoulder, he catches Starscream staring into the rolling plain beyond; he looks lost. 

At last, at  _ long  _ last, Starscream moves to stand beside him, and Bumblebee lets himself take one moment to drink in the sight. “Well?” Starscream asks. “Lead the way.”

The last hurdle is at the entrance of the embassy building itself, and Bumblebee holds his breath as the doors flash a welcoming green on receiving first his, then Starscream’s, sparkprint. Relieved, Bumblebee waves at the staff at the front desk, and he watches their responding smiles fall uncertain when they see Starscream beside him. Starscream grins at them with violent charm, a threat and a challenge in his teeth. It makes Bee’s spark race.

“Quit that,” Bumblebee says after a frozen second, nudging Starscream with his elbow. “They know you’re here as my guest.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Starscream asks, more than a little cruel.

Bumblebee stiffens, then sighs. “As my conjunx, then,” he says, resolute, trying to keep his voice casual and dismissive. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Starscream open his mouth—probably to argue for keeping their relationship hidden, to deploy it later in a better circumstance as a weapon—before closing it. 

They use an elevator at the far end of the lobby to access the residential floors, and Bumblebee leads them through a couple of long hallways until he stops in front of a nondescript door, exactly the same as the rest other than the 113 flashing on its access. His ambassadorial status does not afford him any additional luxury.

“Welcome home, Starscream,” Bumblebee says as he presses his hand against the panel and the door slides open.

The room is cool and chrome, as utilitarian and purposeful as the lobby had been, with an interior composed of strong lines and cold light. Beyond that, however, the eclectic chairs are comfortable, and the living room has plenty of organized clutter dotted around it that Bumblee had not managed to find the time to clean. He can admit that the room is basic, undoubtedly plain in the face of Starscream’s standards. It is a far cry from the luxurious quarters Starscream’s subconscious had created for them in their wonderland of a shared dream, but there is one similarity between the two. A framed photo hangs in the front hallway, and although it is an artistic rendition based on Bumblebee and Windblade’s memory of the photo in the dream, it is an excellent likeness of Starscream and Bumblebee on their coronation day [ [ LINK ](https://twitter.com/ErikaGSkerzz/status/1203321988992978944?s=20) ].

Starscream’s fingers lift and linger thoughtfully on the glass. Bumblebee steps up next to him and takes his free hand, carefully curling their fingers together.

“This isn’t a dream; this is real,” Bumblebee says quietly. “But you, me, us—that’s real, too.”

“Bee,” Starscream says, his voice soft and his eyes very, very intent.

Bumblebee’s air flow intakes stutter at the sight, feeling the tension between them intensify into something almost dangerous. After a few long seconds, though, Starscream turns away to examine the rest of the suite, and the moment is lost.

The pattern repeats itself: as they settle in together, Bumblebee can feel Starscream holding something back. The first time they fall into bed together since they woke up from the dream, Starscream is attentive and slow and sweet. Not that Bumblebee doesn’t appreciate it—he  _ does _ , and it has been so  _ long _ —but he can’t help but feel that something is missing. Laying on the recharge slab, their overheated metal cooling off in the night air, Starscream does not offer a neural connection, and Bumblebee does not ask for one. Starscream is tired, he reasons; even with faster than light travel, the journey from Cybertron to Earth is not an easy one. Bumblebee himself is exhausted, having missed too many nights’ sleep for worrying, and he drops quickly into recharge.

In the warm yellow light of Earth’s sun, though, Bumblebee can see even more clearly the threads of unease spun between them. As days pass, the feeling that Starscream is dancing around him, afraid that one wrong step will bring everything crashing down, worsens. If he’s honest, Bumblebee can feel that fear himself: the fear that this victory, too, will shatter. He may be an optimist, but hope has betrayed him too many times for him to easily shed the suspicion that no peace of theirs can last.

They share breakfast in the mornings before Bumblebee leaves for his office in the embassy, and the careful wariness between them is glaringly obvious. Bumblebee is used to sniping with Starscream, to being brutally honest with him, and for the two of them to be constantly challenging each other. He understands, partially: Starscream could say whatever he wanted to what he thought was a hallucination, and, later, to someone he thought was trapped with him in a never-ending dream. Whenever Bumblebee tries to draw the old Starscream out, with words or with fingers scraping down fluttering wings, Starscream just retreats behind a smirk as he draws away.

It’s—terrifying. To have worked so hard, and to get a fragile facsimile of what he was working for.

To avoid burning out his processors thinking about it, Bumblebee sinks himself into his work. There is, at least, always more work to do.

The latest political snafu involves a trade agreement with the Elcor, and both parties have been hashing out terms and tariffs at the Elcor embassy until late each night this week. The Elcor themselves are practically nocturnal, slow and methodical in both movement and thought, but Bumblebee has been running low on recharge and is starting to stumble through the negotiations. He begs pardon at last on the fifth day and asks to resume the next week. So preoccupied with the finer details of intergalactic coal transport, he doesn’t notice Starscream standing by the doors until he almost brushes against red and white wings. 

Starscream’s arms are crossed as he leans against the wall of the embassy, smirking when Bumblebee jumps a mile. The Elcor can reach heights of ten or fifteen feet, but Starscream still has to slouch to keep the tips of his wings from brushing the ceiling. Bumblebee grins, overjoyed to see him, and he thinks he sees an answering, honest joy when Starscream’s smirk softens into a smile. 

“I didn’t know you were waiting for me,” Bumblebee says, breaking the silence and reaching for Starscream’s hand. “I would’ve left early.”

Starscream laughs and swings their hands as they walk, compensating automatically for Bumblebee’s much shorter stride. “I understand long nights of excruciatingly boring politics better than most,” Starscream says. “That’s one of the few things I was glad to leave behind.”

Bumblebee is not so sure that’s true, but he doesn’t push. A few hundred meters down the road, the stars sprinkling light across the dewy grass, Starscream suddenly asks, “What did you promise the humans to let me stay here?”

“No promise that I wasn’t sure I could keep,” Bumblebee says easily. 

Starscream turns to look at him, red eyes narrow and bright. He grins, teeth flashing; Bumblebee is sure that, to any non-Cybertronian, it would seem friendly. “Come on, Bee,” he wheedles. “You can give me more than that. Did you promise my good behavior?”

“I didn’t promise that I’d keep you as a prisoner, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bumblebee retorts. “I’m not going to stop you from going sight-seeing or visiting friends. Contrary to popular wisdom, I  _ do _ trust you.”

Starscream turns away, his profile sharp against the star-studded sky. “That’s been a dangerous decision, historically.”

Bumblebee just laughs, and Starscream throws him an incredulous look. 

“Oh, really? I had no idea,” Bumblebee drawls, rolling his eyes, but he turns serious as he tugs Starscream to a halt and faces him. 

Bumblebee tries to feel out the shape of what he wants to say, but in the end, he relies on instinct and honesty. “Starscream, I know you’re going to keep testing this, and testing me. I’m still going to keep trying to do the right thing, and sometimes I’m going to get it wrong, but that’s not going to stop me from trying.”

Theirs are the only sparks for at least a mile in any direction; they are on a long road, blanketed by darkness, with the moon a bare sliver in the sky. Starscream hesitates, then nods, his grips on Bumblebee’s hand tightening. They stay quiet as they make their way to the Cybertronian embassy and quieter still as they find their room. The tension between them has somehow only grown, and Bumblebee cannot help but wonder if this is where it breaks. Starscream backs him against the door once they step inside, hands reaching down to tug Bumblebee in by his chest. Bumblebee has to rise onto his toes to kiss him, but as he reaches up to deepen the kiss, to turn it rougher and harder, Starscream digs in his heels to slow them down.

Bumblebee breaks off, frustration coming to a point, and decides to ask for what he wants. “Starscream, you don’t have to hold back with me,” he argues. “I’m not made of glass, and you shouldn’t have to just give me what you think I want.”

Starscream quiets, eyes half-shuttered and impassive. “What is it that you think you want, then, Bee?”

Bumblebee puts a hand on Starscream’s chest and grounds himself in the whir of his turbines, the pulse of his spark. “You were honest with me before. Hell, you’ve been more honest with me than not at this point, and  _ that _ ’s what I want. Not this—sweet facade. Starscream, I  _ know _ you’re not some gentle giant. I know you’re not sweet; I  _ want _ not sweet. I want you: all of you.”

The fans beneath his hand stutter. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Starscream says.

“Then  _ show me _ .”

Before Bumblebee can react, before his combat modules can even come online to counter, Starscream grabs his hand and spins him into the wall with a growl. He uses his height and size to form a cage, pinning Bumblebee’s right arm against his back and trapping the left arm between Bumblebee’s body and the wall. When Starscream speaks, his voice cuts like a saber, humming with energy against Bumblebee’s audial receptor. Bumblebee can feel the exhaust caressing the back of his head, the tips of his horns. He shuts his eyes.

“ _ Show me _ , you say,” Starscream taunts, low. “As if you haven’t seen every violent inch of the war as closely as any of us. As if I haven’t hurt  _ you _ personally.” 

He presses closer, twisting Bumblebee’s arm to the edge of its socket. Bumblebee cannot seem to get air. “Do you think that wasn’t really me? Do you think I’ve  _ reformed _ ? I’m still not the saint you were pushing me to be.”

Bumblebee’s world is narrowed to the heat pressing along his back, the voice at his ear, and his warning systems running on high alert on the verge of fight or flight. He  _ knows _ Starscream will not really hurt him, but he is running on instinct as he tries to push back and cannot move Starscream even an inch. He has—he has never felt like this before, not at any point in the war. His sparkbeat has doubled in frequency, his air intake is running in starts and stops, and he can feel his valve click softly as lubricant starts slicking the interior. 

He is suddenly so turned on he can barely think. He sinks into Starscream’s hold with a gasp, neck bared as he leans his forehead against the cool metal of the wall. “I don’t want a saint, Starscream,” Bumblebee manages to say at last, panting against the wall with an uncomfortable warmth spreading through his chest, “And I don’t want you trying to be something you’re not.”

His words make Starscream hesitate, grip loosening. Bumblebee sends a fervent prayer to Primus that this was not a bluff or Starscream trying to scare him off, that this—this  _ something— _ was what had lain unspoken between them. He feels Starscream’s hands release him, and he turns to watch warily as Starscream backs up a few dozen yards. Starscream stops on the other side of their kitchen table, his face as blank and impenetrable as a durasteel wall.

By the matrix, Bumblebee just had to fall in love with the least readable Cybertronian ever sparked. He is tired, and confused, and his spark is still racing inside his chest. “Starscream, just lay it out for me. Tell me what you really want,  _ please _ .”

At 'please', Starscream looks away. When he looks back up, his eyes look like they hold the birth of the universe. It makes Bumblebee want to go to his knees.

“Bee, I want to  _ own you _ ,” Starscream growls like a confession, danger dripping in his voice as his control breaks. He closes his eyes and manually activates his air intakes, shutting himself up before he can say too much. Honesty sits on his tongue like an unfamiliar friend; his usual eloquence is breaking down in the face of describing his own needs. “No, I want—I want to take you, to have you entirely, to cram myself so far into you that you can’t think about anything but my spike, how much I’m filling you up, how you can’t do anything but take it and _ take it _ .”

He says it like an admission of guilt, but Bumblebee lets himself imagine it as if it were a promise—losing control, giving himself up wholly to  _ Starscream _ —and he shivers. He is still feeling out the edge of his own desire, but it feels as though he has opened a door and had a river come flooding in. And Bumblebee, who has always been able to use honesty as a weapon, wields his truth precisely. “Yeah,” he says, static in his voice, and goes for broke. “I want that. I want—all of that. I want to lose control. Starscream, I want to surrender and mean it.”

Part of the table cracks under Starscream’s hands. His eyes are dark, cut through with bright flashes of light, and he is clearly straining to keep his fans quiet while holding himself still. "Bee, you can’t just—”

“I _can_. That’s what I want, Starscream,” Bumblebee says, and, through his surprise and his nerves, he finds that he does. “Trust me on that much, at least.”

Millennia of being second-in-command, second-best, and second-rate have left scars on the both of them, and though it affects them in different ways, they both bristle at being underestimated. A wave of relief crashes over Bumblebee when he sees the moment that Starscream decides to take him at his word. 

Starscream stands a little straighter, looking for all the world like someone taking their first cautious step on a swaying rope bridge, trying not to stare into the darkness below. “If we try this,” he says tentatively, “We have to have rules.”

As much as Bumblebee wants to say,  _ you can do anything to me _ , he has enough processing power left to stop and think. He falls quiet, feeling as if he is back in the frozen limbo of infraspace, caught in a timeless in-between that will dictate success or failure.

“Don’t ask me to be quiet,” Bumblebee concludes at last. He watches Starscream's eyes focus on his vocalizer, on the brand-new, perfectly functioning machinery that had never been torn from this throat but somehow still aches during electrical storms. “Or hold me down by my neck. I can’t—think of anything else right now. Do you want to pick a word or something?”

“Not now. If you tell me to stop, I stop. If you tell me no, I stop. Ok?” He says it quickly; it sounds as though it were something that Starscream had needed for himself, once, and did not have. “This time—we’re not going far.”

The air strums between them like a live current, and it sings of the temptation to disagree and ask for everything,  _ now _ , as much as Starscream has ever wanted, as much as Bumblebee has to give. Bumblebee forces himself to slow down, to take a deep breath and try to be kind. 

“Ok,” he says. “Starscream, if you’re uncomfortable with this, or if you don’t want to do this now, I’m not trying to push you. This is only if you want it.”

Starscream laughs, but there is a new, bright edge to it. “My dear Bee, my  _ wanting  _ you should be the least of your concerns. Wanting things is what I’m best at.”

The birth of the universe is back in Starscream’s eyes. His fans whir to life, and a wave of heat washes over Bee. Starscream smirks—the taunting, self-possessed smirk more suited for the battlefield than their kitchen—and Bumblebee’s combat modules are already sending ready signals.

“Bee?” 

“Yes?” Bumblebee asks, desperate.

Starscream moves forward to loom over him, and the breadth of his wings is like an ocean, like the night sky, as they tower above him. “Get on the bed.”

Bumblebee is shaking with anticipation and adrenaline as he slowly, gratefully goes to sit on the edge of their bed. He has only a second to worry about what he should do next before Starscream is in front of him, close, and Bumblebee forces himself to stop thinking. In an instant, Starscream puts a hand on his chest, hand dark against the sunshine yellow, and pushes him down. He kneels between Bumblebee’s splayed legs, settling Bumblebee’s knees at the bend of his waist. Leaning down, Starscream grabs Bumblebee’s wrists in one hand and holds them to the durasteel bars of their headboard, a challenge in his eyes. 

“Hold on, and don’t let go,” Starscream says, his eyes bright enough to reflect red down across Bumblebee’s face and back onto his own. “Can you do that?”

Bumblebee tightens his grip around the bars in answer, narrowing his eyes, and Starscream bites at the exposed wires on Bumblebee’s chest in satisfaction. At the sensation, Bumblebee’s hips automatically shove upwards, but Starscream’s hand on his chest keeps him pinned. Starscream arched over him, using his greater height to cage Bumblebee in and hold him down, is the only thing Bumblebee can see in any direction. His fans tick up in speed.

“Every time I thought about this, I never imagined you’d already be running so hot for me,” Starscream drawls, keeping one hand on Bumblebee’s midriff while the other strokes down his chest and lingers on Bumblebee’s array. “You gonna open up for me, Bee?”

He keeps his touches feather-light, teasing, wandering to the soft junction between Bumblebee’s leg and pelvis before going back to his array. Bumblebee tries to twist into or away from the touch and cannot move more than a few inches in either direction, and it makes his head swim as he pants, “Make me.”

Starscream grins and spreads his knees for balance, the shift pushing Bumblebee’s legs even wider. He sinks lower, resting his forearm across Bumblebee’s pelvis, and licks across the full seam of Bumblebee’s array, sliding his tongue into each thin groove and sending a jolt of current with his free hand to the circuits next to the array. With a start, Bumblebee’s panel slides open automatically, and he squirms with embarrassment at how his valve is already warm and dripping lubricant. Without missing a beat, Starscream shoves his tongue into the valve, and it is only Starscream’s arm pressing down, as immobile as stone, that keeps Bumblebee from taking Starscream’s head off with his hips.

But Bumblebee’s hands slip as he loses himself in the sensation, and Starscream stops the second one of Bumblebee’s fingers leaves the headboard bars. His eyes flick a challenge up to Bumblebee, who has to gather the disparate scraps of his focus to reposition his hands and hang on, riding the wave of pleasure sparking up his valve, through his spinal struts, into his overheating processor. Starscream works his tongue in further, licking his way into Bumblebee, and he brings his free hand up to press a finger in alongside his tongue as a reward.

Bumblebee’s hips shove against Starscream’s arm as Starscream hits a chain of internal nodes that kick his fans into overdrive. “Star—” he bites out, cutting off with a groan. Starscream stops, and Bee curses. “Don’t  _ stop _ .”

He looks down to see Starscream’s chin dripping rainbow lubricant as he grins, and Bumblebee’s whole body shudders when Starscream licks his lower lip. Starscream slides another finger into Bumblebee, curling them slowly, methodically, into and out of Bumblebee as he shifts his weight up the bed Bumblebee’s body curling up as the new position forces Bumblebee’s hips up. Starscream moves his arm from Bumblebee’s pelvis to plant his hand on the bed for balance, elbow pressing into Bumblebee’s shoulder to keep him down.

He leans down once he reaches eye level, exhaust hot on Bumblebee’s face. “I don’t think you get to tell me what to do,” he breathes, and he laughs when Bumblebee’s valve spirals down to clench on his fingers. “Eager, huh?”

“Starscream,” Bumblebee groans, his body tight with anticipation, pinned between the knees beneath his hips, the arm on his shoulder, the fingers in his valve. He pushes up against Starscream’s grip, tries to curl up into him or away, and cannot budge an inch. He shivers at the press of all that strength on display, all for him.

Starscream strokes Bumblebee’s valve consideringly, softly, and Bumblebee shudders even as he sinks further into Starscream’s hold. 

“Shh, Bee,” Starscream says, dark and amused. “I’ve got you.”

Bumblebee shuts his eyes, his mind spinning with sensation, and his processor is starting to overheat again beneath the deluge of sensors warning him about being pinned down and helpless, perfectly out of control in the overwhelming fact of Starscream’s strength and size.

Starscream slides open his own array without ceremony or warning, just withdraws his hand from Bumblebee’s valve and shifts it to grasp Bumblebee’s hips and pull him further onto Starscream’s lap. Bumblebee uses the last of his energy to tilt his head to look at Starscream’s spike, his air intake catching at the sight of it, huge and red and lined with white biolights. 

They have been here before, yes, but everything feels new and overwhelming.

“Bee?” Starscream asks, concerned voice cutting through the haze. “Bumblebee?”

“You still haven’t made me beg,” Bumblebee manages to say, and Starscream laughs, pulling Bumblebee’s hips closer so they line up.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Starscream says, and his first stroke is brutal, fast and inexorable, and Bumblebee’s head clangs back against the bed as he is filled. His configuration manager panics, scrambling to readjust his valve for the incoming parameters and overwhelming him with warnings, just as every sensor on the interior of his valve is sending sparks of pleasure up his sensory array. Bumblebee cannot move, cannot think, can barely sort through the maelstrom of sensation ricocheting around his processor. 

After a few more punishing strokes, Starscream draws back slowly, too slowly. Bumblebee has enough presence of mind to reposition his hands back on the headboard from where they had been slipping. He shifts his hips, trying to keep the spike in him so that his valve can finish reconfiguring itself, but Starscream keeps him trapped perfectly in place, no matter how hard he pushes. He hears a low whine, just on the edge of his hearing, and it takes another few thick, slow seconds to realize that he is the one making the sound. “Star, I can take it,  _ Star— _ ”

“Are you sure?” Starscream asks as he moves even slower,  _ the bastard _ , and Bumblebee wants him so badly—wants to be filled, to be so full of Starscream’s spike he cannot breathe, to be done with this teasing—and to go back to that space where he was pushed past his ability to think. 

“Starscream, please,” he says at last, voice skittering with static. He is gripping the headboard so tightly that he can barely feel his fingers. “ _ Please _ , please fuck me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Star smirks, and he pushes back into Bumblebee’s body with one swift stroke. Bumblebee’s vision whites out, his processor working overtime to shift a few more pieces before the next stroke overwhelms his sensory network again. There are mixed sparks of pleasure and pain flooding his processor; he is dismissing warnings as they appear, as he shakes, as he is caught in Starscream’s arms and helpless to do anything but take it and take it and take it. Absently, Bee hears Starscream’s turbines whir and realizes that he is using his jet engines to push himself harder and faster into Bumblebee. The thought sends him reeling again. 

“Decepticons talked about this, you know,” Starscream says at last, stopping for a second. He sounds unhurried: almost but not quite calm. “The brave, impossible Autobot scout, too small by half but somehow more successful than mere luck could account for. Loyal to an absolute, horrid fault. What would your surrender look like? Who could draw it from behind your clenched teeth?”

He pushes into Bumblebee a few more times letting the image percolate as Bumblebee struggles to draw his central processing back to the impossible challenge of  _ language _ . 

“Let me see you; let me see if I imagined it right. Let go, Bee,” Starscream says quietly, slowing down to coax Bumblebee’s fingers away from the headboard. The metal creaks as he does, and Bumblebee forces air into his aching vents, trying desperately to focus on what Starscream is saying. Starscream slides the hand he had been using to prop himself up behind Bumblebee’s back, pulling Bumblebee up until he is sitting across Starscream’s bent knees, Starscream’s spike hot and huge in his valve. Starscream drags his hand from Bumblebee’s hip to where his spike enters Bumblebee, running his fingers over the throbbing metal where they intersect. 

“Perfect,” he whispers. “Perfectly mine.”

He draws Bumblebee into a deep kiss, pressing hungrily and triumphantly into Bumblebee’s mouth as he takes and claims it, as Bumblebee lets him in. When Starscream moves back, he shifts his hand from Bumblebee’s valve to dig his fingers into the hinge of Bumblebee’s hips, eyes dark. 

“Unlock your configuration,” he says, and Bumblebee shifts his legs into a partial transformation, giving Starscream more space to sink into him. With the new space, Starscream’s spike reaches the full length of Bumblebee’s valve, and Bumblebee can feel it all through his chassis, thick and unrelenting. Starscream leans forward, hinging on his hips and knees and keeping Bumblebee tucked against his chest until Bumblebee’s back hits the bed again. In the single second of warning, Bee has just enough presence of mind to grab weakly onto Starscream’s shoulders, trying to stay afloat as Starscream starts to move.

“To think—that  _ I’m _ the only one—to see you like this. Completely overwhelmed, entirely mine,” Starscream says, dark triumph clear in his voice. His pace is relentless, hard, and he is still holding Bumblebee precisely in place. “ _ Mine _ . Will you admit it?”

Bumblebee has sunk back down into where he cannot think, can only feel, and his processor is grasping at the tatters of what it remembers as language to gasp out, “ _ Yours _ , Starscream. Only yours,  _ please _ .” 

He is not sure what he is begging for, even as he chokes on a sob, even as he keeps begging. He only knows that he wants it, wants more even as Starscream’s thrusts become more erratic, his brutal tempo starting to fall to pieces. 

“If you’re mine, Bumblebee, then open  _ up _ ,” Starscream says at last, both of them so close, and they open their neural access in tandem. Starscream surges into Bumblebee’s mind with an ocean of possessiveness and victory, cut through with a hard black current of want. Beneath all of that is a vicious, golden satisfaction at  _ having _ that sends Bumblebee over the edge, and his overload drags Starscream down with him into a molten core of pleasure that cycles between their neural pathway in an overwhelming feedback loop.

The arm that Starscream was using to keep himself upright over Bumblebee buckles, and their chests clang before Starscream manages to catch himself again. Bumblebee sees stars, white hot and bursting, almost endless in that beautiful, thoughtless place.

They come down slowly from the freefall, and neither moves to disconnect neural access. Even through the sea of exhaustion and contentment, Bumblebee can feel Starscream start to poke around, rifling through Bumblebee’s mental storage. It seems impossible to panic after the overload he just had, and besides, Starscream does not seem to be rifling through long-term storage. He seems to be specifically looking for—oh.

“You can just ask if it was good for me, too,” Bumblebee says, projecting rueful amusement through the link.

He feels Starscream's lack of shame as clear as a bell.

“When has anyone ever gotten what they want just by asking for it?” Starscream thinks back, but his usual disdain is tinged with a bitterness that is starting to go stale. Bumblebee tries to imagine pulling that bitterness away like a magnet fishing for iron filings, drawing it up to the surface and washing it away.

“You can, from me,” he says, and he pulls his sincerity to the forefront of his mind, where they can both see the truth of it in this space where no lie can live. He cannot hear anything from Starscream for a few long moments, and he waits.

“I’m starting to believe that,” Starscream says at last, and he pulls away from where he had been combing Bumblebee’s recent memories. Bumblebee hums, satisfied, basking in the quiet comfort of their linked minds. 

Eventually, though, Bumblebee recharges enough for his repair system to come back online. It immediately pings him with a laundry list of dents and connection errors where his joints were half-transformed for too long. Embarrassed, he tries to hide the alerts from the connection, but Starscream just laughs. He sits back up, drawing Bumblebee off of his spike as he does so, and both their noses wrinkle as a sticky mess of lubricant and transfluid pools between them. As Bumblebee starts his self-cleaning routine, Starscream folds his wings back and moves to lay on his side next to Bumblebee. Something in his face seems less fragile and more grounded: less fearful and more wondering. 

Bumblebee shutters his array with a wince and mirrors Starscream until both of them are curled like a pair of parentheses. He shifts forward so their legs are intertwined, comforted by the warm metal, and he cups Starscream’s face with one hand. Starscream turns into it, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in Bumblebee’s chest. 

“Credit for your thoughts?” Bumblebee asks.

Starscream smiles, soft as the dawn. His hands are warm where they hold Bumblebee close. 

“Just that, of all the dead Autobots to be rattling around in my head,” he says, “I’m glad it was you.”

_Art commissioned from @ErikaGSkerzz on[Twitter](https://twitter.com/ErikaGSkerzz/status/1269405709428555776?s=20) and on [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/ErikaSkerzz/posts). Posted here with permission._

**Author's Note:**

>  _My Oberon, what visions have I seen!  
>  Methought I was enamored of an ass.  
> _  
> —A Midsummer Night’s Dream
> 
> Star’s going to say it back, one of these days. _One of these days._ And I’ll write more than “light” dom/sub one of these days, too. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Find me on Twitter @Chelthulu for more Starbee, and, as always, all feedback loved.


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